The Contract
by Andriech
Summary: Doctors on Starships don't get to choose their patients. McCoy struggles with his own fears and uncertainties, knowing Jim Kirk isn't about to transfer new Navigator just to please the medical staff. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

_**The Contract**_

He'd never admit it to that damned Vulcan. After years in space, Leonard McCoy had found that humans were by far still the strangest beings a Doctor could encounter.

That thought weighed heavily on his mind as he stared at the medical record displayed on the computer screen before him. The Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer had noted instantly the sparse number of encounters the Star Fleet Academy medical staff had with the new Ensign. Far fewer than normal, McCoy thought ruefully: probably the bare minimum required. He didn't blame them.

The medical jargon in the reports of the Doctor who treated the young man prior to his entrance into the Academy did very little to disguise the gruesome facts contained within them. The words there settled a somber, metallic hollowness deep within McCoy. He wished he could truthfully say the details of the boy's earlier injuries soaked empty his well of empathy for his patient: but McCoy knew it was the man's interactions with the previous medical staff that left the Enterprise's Chief Surgeon pale.

_Why did Jim Kirk have to be so thrilled with his newest acquisition for the ship's command complement? _The Captain had complained broadly for months that the ship needed another officer in navigation. With careful calculation, however, he had waited until the graduating class at Starfleet Academy was thrown open to the annual frenzy of senior officers scrambling to acquire new, raw talent in the posting draft. James Kirk had waited specifically for this boy to get his commission.

Everyone thought the kid's reported genius in navigation prompted the Enterprise's Captain to go after him with such unparalleled gusto. McCoy knew better. The new Ensign's navigation skills were just an added bonus to Kirk. What McCoy's friend regaled him with after an early review of the First Level Class records was the sheer abundance of both honor and character this particular cadet possessed. The Doctor knew from experience that honor and character in a person meant more to Jim Kirk than the finest training available. He would have passed over a highly skilled person for one that showed character.

You could teach skills. Character was within a person, or it was not.

Leonard McCoy hadn't seen the kid's personnel record, so he didn't know what it contained to convince the Captain he had character. The Doctor wished beyond anyone's ability to comprehend that he could show Kirk the medical records he now stared at. This horror story made no allusion to either honor or character.

Of course, medical records were confidential. Not even the Commanding Officer had access to anything that didn't directly relate to a person's ability to do their job or find their niche in the ship's social structure. _Damm it_, thought McCoy with irritation. Why couldn't he convince himself that a person's relationship with his Doctor qualified in either of these categories? Why couldn't he just come out and tell Jim the brutal truth about the boy he'd welcomed aboard his ship with such self-satisfaction?

McCoy coaxed the last of his now cold coffee down his throat: eyes still transfixed on the medical record before him. The hair on the back of his neck crawled in anticipation. He set down the cup with a difficult sigh and pulled the tape out of the reader. Pressing it hard between his fingers, he growled, as though either action could change what the tape contained.

"Len, are you okay?"

"Ya," McCoy answered M'Benga, who had poked his head into the office. "It's just that…" He stopped suddenly and eyed the man. "As a matter of fact," he carefully drew out after a moment, "I'm a little under the weather this morning and I've got a physical on my schedule.

"Can you take care of it?" he asked rhetorically, standing and moving over to push the tape into the other Doctor's hand before he responded. "Thanks: I owe you."

"Perhaps I should look you over," the other Doctor observed with genuine concern.

"Oh, no: that's not necessary. It's just a little too much off-duty recreation," McCoy said, thinking the answer inspired. "I sometimes forget I'm not as young as I used to be. I need a little time today to let my body and brain catch up to each other, if you know what I mean."

M'Benga eyed the tape as McCoy spoke, dark lines creasing his brow. "Len..." he intoned curiously.

"Doctor," he maintained more formally. "This is an initial physical: and for an officer, no less. You know Starfleet regulations require that all initial physicals for incoming crew be conducted by the Chief Medical Officer."

_An officer . . . _M'Benga's words turned over in his mind slowly. _An officer owes the Fleet three years service for his Academy education. Three years: Damn it._

_Maybe the kid will get transferred_, McCoy thought hopefully_. Maybe I can help a transfer along. Damn it all to hell: there are definite down sides to being a Fleet Doctor. I'm trapped on this ship with this boy in my practice._

"Never mind," he relented, retrieving the tape. "I'll do it."

"Are you sure?" the other Doctor pressed, concern still in his voice. "You should reschedule the physical."

McCoy considered the idea. Putting the exam off would only prolong the dread he felt building within. "You can assist me," he answered after a moment.

M'Benga followed him into the exam room. "You want me to assist in a physical," he repeated, eyeing the Chief Medical Officer strangely. A simple exam certainly didn't require tying up the ships two most senior medical staff.

"Yes," McCoy rasped, shooting a steely glare at him while placing the tape next to the exam bed. "Do you have a problem with that, Doctor?"

The larger man studied him a long moment before answering. "No, Sir," he said. "You did ask me to complete those tests in the lab, however."

McCoy shifted his jaw, wondering if he appeared as much an idiot as he felt. "Yes, I did. I can start the physical and you can join me when you're finished."

"Fine," the man replied, eyeing him. "He's here, I think." He indicated the outer room with his head. "Early," he added, knowing physicals were always scheduled on the hour.

"Yes," McCoy agreed as he recognized the young man from his file. "Obviously a personality trait." _The kid had even been born early, _he remembered as he eyed the Ensign with trepidation.

More striking in person than on a computer screen was the clean-cut, wholesome, good looks of the all-American, boy-next-door. Huge, soulful, brown puppy-dog eyes full of innocence shifted and met McCoy's steady gaze. The kid had a face of an angel.

_No wonder the other Doctors had been taken in so easily._

McCoy was not going to make that mistake. He remained frozen where he was. He couldn't very well act like he hadn't been staring at the boy now.

Edging tentatively toward the door to the exam room, he gave the Doctor a weak smile.

"Excuse me, Sir. Are you Dr. McCoy?"

McCoy blinked hard, forcing himself to swallow the instantaneous burst of laughter at himself. The words were laced with a thick accent.

So much for the all-American, boy-next-door look.

"Yes, Ensign: come in."

_Hurry, damn you, M'Benga: don't leave me here alone too long._

"I'd better get to the lab," the man commented and left, showing no signs of picking up McCoy's futile attempt at telepathy.

The newest member of the ship's complement moved into the room, dark eyes fixed on the Doctor warily.

"Doctor McCoy?" he asked.

In the wholesome, good looks, McCoy now clearly saw the young man's heritage. Under fine brown hair he had wide, Slavic cheekbones and a fine nose and lips. The big, deep eyes dominated his features: utterly expressive wells of emotion one often found on Russians. A pretty fellow, he appeared even younger than his twenty-one years. McCoy wondered how long it would take in space service before he lost the bright-eyed appearance all newly commissioned officers came aboard with.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Chekov." He flashed a bright, fake smile. For good measure he took the boy's hand and gave him a resounding handshake. "How are you?"

The depthless brown eyes widened, regarding McCoy with outright trepidation as the Ensign tried to rescue his hand from the Doctor's pummeling. "I'm fine," he replied carefully.

"Good!" The ship's Chief Medical Officer said enthusiastically. "You look fine to me too. Well, you have a good tour: she's a fine ship. If you ever need anything, you know where to find me."

The young man frowned, eyeing the Doctor strangely. "That's….it?"

McCoy's smile turned rueful and he sighed. "Sadly, no." He winked at met the Ensign, blue eyes sparkling. "But we both had our hopes up there for a minute, didn't we?"

Startled, Chekov straightened and watched as the older man move further into the exam room.

"Join me," the Doctor prompted. He sighed again, not failing to notice the continued hesitancy with which the Ensign approached.

"I understand that you're going to be our new navigator," he commented amiably.

"Currently, that is the plan."

McCoy turned, eying him darkly. "Meaning?"

The kid shrugged innocently. "As a command officer on my first posting, regulations require that I serve in every department before receiving my final assignment from the Captain. Plans often change."

The Doctor felt himself grow cold, even though he saw nothing methodical in the man's warm brown eyes. "You're saying that you don't want to be a navigator?" he questioned guardedly.

The man's eyes remained frozen on McCoy, unreadable, a long moment. The Doctor felt his skin crawl and shifted to ease the sensation.

"I am a navigator," Chekov finally answered bluntly. "I want to be a Captain." Then he smiled: a sudden, wild, grin that lit up his entire face and shone brilliantly in the melted chocolate depths of his eyes.

McCoy inhaled sharply at the abrupt, unexpected radiance in the previously dismal Ensign.

The boy must have heard it…or sensed it, because the smile vanished instantly. The brown eyes dropped into instant darkness again and fixed on the Doctor with complete distrust.

"I like to start with just some basic tests of your level of fitness," McCoy ploughed on as though he didn't see the look he was getting. "Let me see if you can touch your toes, Ensign."

The kid hesitated, eying the Doctor a moment. Then with a graceful, fluid movement, the Ensign swept his right leg up against his head and caught onto his foot with his left hand. "Like this?" he asked with great, big innocent eyes. "Or did you want me to touch my left foot?" He exchanged legs easily.

McCoy shifted his jaw, eyes narrowing. _Wiseass._ "Can you touch them both at the same time?" he quickly demanded, knowing any inch he gave this man might prove his ultimate undoing. _In this case, that would be extraordinarily bad._

The new Navigator dropped his leg, bent in half, and flattened his palms on the top of his feet.

The Doctor planted a hand on his hip and scowled fiercely. The young man was quickly proving the notations about his brash, outgoing personality true. That meant everything in the record might be true, which McCoy had secretly hoped against.

He admitted the flesh and blood human that faced him now did intrigue him, however. He knew from the medical records that the Ensign's five six, small framed body was the solid muscle of an athlete. He didn't know how limber the man was. "Can you do that sitting down?" he asked with professional interest.

The Ensign glanced down at the deck beneath his feet, then back at the Doctor suspiciously. "Regulations prohibit officers from being on the floor in uniform, Sir."

McCoy scowled. "Mister, either consider that an order to make an exception," he rasped, "Or go ahead and take your clothes off. I don't care which: just do it."

Chekov's eyes narrowed, fixing the Doctor with a dark, pointed look as his jaw hardened. McCoy had swiftly yanked control back away from the boy's skillful, comedic efforts. He's won an early battle and the Doctor felt empowered by it. As for the kid, he sat down on the floor without comment, stretched his legs out before him, and easily leaned forward until his hands grasped his feet and his chest pressed tight against his thighs. "Yes, I can," he replied.

"Oh, my word!" The Head Nurse exclaimed, startled, as she paused at the exam room's door to the main sickbay. "Just how long did you study ballet, Ensign?" she asked, smiling easily.

The young man's head snapped up and McCoy grinned without shame. _You're busted, boy._ "How did you know it was ballet?" the Doctor questioned Chapel.

The Nurse smiled, eyes sparkling. "In humans, only men who study ballet or gymnastics as children can do that. The Ensign doesn't appear to have the upper body development to be a gymnast."

"All children in Russia study ballet for at least a few years," the boy replied sheepishly, his wide eyes completely vulnerable. A wantonly charming smile entirely took over his features as he climbed to his feet. "It's a school requirement, Ma'am. Ballet is considered the foundation for all other athletics and basic fitness."

"It probably should be everywhere," McCoy agreed. "Ballet establishes a center of balance, innate coordination, grace: many professional athletes are sent for ballet lessons to improve their game. It's standard for American Football players."

Chekov's remarkable flexibility at twenty-one was not a carry-over of childhood lessons, however, the Doctor knew. Such physical training simply didn't stay with you on its own.

"Human boys permanently lose most of their flexibility by the time they're eight if they're not trained properly," the Ensign observed, as though the medical personnel didn't know that already.

"Can you do the splits?" Chapel continued, her interest peaked.

The new Navigator made a dramatic show of tipping over to study his legs. Glancing up, his soulful eyes filled with wounded pity and he flashed a devilishly brilliant smile. "Not in these pants, Ma'am.

"Perhaps another day in the gym," he continued as he straightened again. The brilliant smile completely took over the melted chocolate of his eyes. "Do you like ballet?" he asked brightly.

She pressed the clipboard in her hand against her chest as several other female sickbay staff gathered behind her, drawn by the scene. "I am a devoted fan of Boris Alexesandrovich," she confessed, referring to the current lead male dancer at the Marinisky Theater. "Which company do you prefer? The Marinisky? The Bolshoi? The Ballet Russe?"

"The Marinisky continues to provide the best and purest classical training on Earth," Chekov stated matter-of-factly. "You can always tell if a dancer started in St. Petersburg."

McCoy eyed the boy in curiosity, wondering if it were true. The Doctor only appreciated ballet for the profound effects it had on the human body and had no idea differences in training were actually noticeable to followers of the art.

"You haven't actually seen Boris perform in person, have you?" Chapel continued wistfully.

"Yes, Ma'am. In fact, I actually studied in the same class with him."

"No!"

"I do not lie: especially not to such beautiful ladies!" Chekov protested with innocent indignation, his accent growing thicker as he outright pouted.

She smiled at him warmly, her eyes sparkling. "If you studied with Boris, why didn't you continue your training?"

"He was good, I was not so good," he expounded sorrowfully. "I will arrange for the two of you to exchange messages, if you like."

"You're not serious!"

"I do not lie," the young man insisted petulantly, his injured pout taking over his face.

The boy's big brown eyes and toying smile made him appear both utterly vulnerable and temptingly, rakishly, dangerous. The way his features shifted seamlessly from utterly shy to overpowering was mesmerizing. The depth of his accent varied with the shifts on his countenance.

_Manipulative little shit, _McCoy growled to himself. _He's doing it on purpose._

_He is dangerous._

The Doctor straightened, reminded of the medical record. "Mr. Chekov," he bit out sharply, ending the exercise in manipulation. "I have other patients to see."

The brilliant smile instantly dropped off the young man's face and he glanced sharply at the Doctor menacingly. "Yes, Sir," was his subdued answer, however.

McCoy fixed the women with a pointed look as he closed the door that led into the main sickbay. "Up on the bed, boy," he instructed Chekov.

He watched as the man eyed the bed warily before he carefully edged onto it. The Ensign started as the bed's display sprang on. McCoy strolled closer slowly, intrigued with the way the kid lay down gingerly, as if half expecting the bed itself to turn on him.

"You aren't going to hurt me, are you?" the young man asked suspiciously as the Doctor paused by the bedside.

"Not if you don't hurt me," McCoy instantly retorted.

Chekov sat up quickly, leaning on his palms as he shot the Doctor a dark look. "Did you just threaten me?" he demanded.

McCoy hesitated and raised his thick eyebrows to emphasize the steely eyes. "Let's call it a contract, boy: you don't hurt me and I won't hurt you."

The younger man eyed him a moment, with a dark, calculating look. "A contract?" he ventured leerily.

"Yes," the older man confirmed. "That condition will be the main contract. We'll negotiate the individual clauses as we go along. Lie back down," he ordered. Downright smug, McCoy felt truly in control of the situation for the first time.

The Navigator complied, noticeably jerking in response to every sound the exam equipment made.

The Doctor stood and carefully watched both the bed's readout and the boy lying on it. Moved by the kid's distress, he reached across the bed to eliminate the sound. Chekov lurched up suddenly and McCoy jerked back, stumbling away from the bed in primal cowardice.

The Ensign's dark eyes raked over the Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer blatantly. "What did Doctor Chapman write in my medical file?" he demanded.

"The truth."

"He hurt me," Chekov pronounced.

"He obviously didn't have a contract with you," McCoy commented, refusing to be cowed by the kid's attempt to do so.

He changed tactics and walked around to the other side of the bed before silencing it. Directing Chekov's attention to the various bar readings displayed, he was careful to keep his arm behind the younger man's head as he took the time to explain each of them.

"Blood pressure, good: heart rate, also good."

"High," the kid remarked, his wide eyes on the readings as he twisted back to look at them.

"They're high for you?" McCoy repeated with mild interest, although without surprise. Athletes tended to have lower base readings. "Your record will confirm that." McCoy cleared his throat uncomfortably at the reminder of the man's record, feeling his heart seize up despite all professionalism. He pushed on through the attack of nerves.

"This reading," he continued, pointing to an actual lack of reading. "Is the amount of pain you're feeling: none. I guess I'm safe at the moment," the Doctor said light-heartedly as he purposely skipped the next sky-high, angry streak of red and continued on through the rest of the readings. The actual interest the Navigator was showing in McCoy's explanation both calmed the older man. _Involve the kid, _he thought shrewdly._ Take his mind off the exam._

Chekov's voice interrupted his train of thought. "What is that one?"

_Okay_, the Doctor thought as he stared at the reading he had avoided. _The kid is sharp._ He shifted while he thought of an answer. "That tells me the amount of adrenalin in your system," he replied blandly. "This particular reading most likely explains the rise you noticed in your blood pressure and heart rate."

The scattered abnormalities McCoy could see in the seemingly normal readings confirmed what the medical records had already told him. The increased pulse and blood pressure, the shallow breathing, and the dilated pupils all informed the Doctor the sky-high adrenalin reading was accurate. Reaction to such a surge of adrenalin was universal in the entire animal kingdom: either fight or flight.

He could already tell that flight was simply unknown to Pavel Chekov.

McCoy didn't need the medical records to tell him that: he saw it shining in the kid's dark eyes.

Unfortunately, McCoy also saw in the eyes that the record was accurate in its clear statement that nothing signaled danger to Chekov more than a medical facility. The boy had come to know Doctor's as agents of torment who too easily ripped away his very ability to protect himself from potential peril. Any organism's most basic need was to protect itself at any cost. His medical record showed Chekov had learned to do just that: any way he had to.

McCoy considered the readings soberly. _Hell, he's terrified. Given his personality and history, the boy is handling it a hell of a lot better than I'd expect._

He straightened slowly. _No one deserves the utter panic that comes from rampant loss of control over your own safety._

"Go ahead and sit up," he advised. "I'll be right back." Disappearing back into his office, he began to rummage through rarely used storage cabinets.

He hesitated as he heard a sound that made him look up and notice that M'Benga had entered the private exam room. As though watching an accident in slow motion, riveted by morbid curiosity, the Chief Medical Officer watched as the other Doctor attempted to initiate what should have been routine tests.

Chekov lashed out violently and recoiled with a vicious snarl. McCoy grinned slyly, feeling victorious. The boy wasn't impossible to treat, he just required his own unique and delicate bedside manner.

The Chief Medical Officer returned to the exam room and the new officer swiftly, carrying a clipboard, stylus and worn black leather case. The Doctor rested them on the bed next to the Ensign.

"Mr. Chekov…" he began

"Sir, I do not think it is necessary to have two Doctors present for a simple physical." The dark eyes that bore through him were downright demonic, the all-too polite words snarled through almost gasped breaths.

Yes, the words were polite. From what the readings said about the increased anxiety Chekov was feeling, McCoy expected something more along the lines of _get him the hell out of here._ Maybe Kirk knew something about this kid after all.

His blue eyes forcefully sought out and held the pained brown eyes of the Ensign. Despite the clear discomfort in their dark depths, the soft gaze was unwavering. The Chief Medical Officer fought off a pleased smile.

"Doctor M'Benga, thank-you. That'll be all."

The tall, dark man looked at him as though he had lost his mind before leaving again without comment.

"Ensign," McCoy continued amiably as he pulled open the weathered bag he had brought in with him. "Those readings are considered accurate, but I always worry about impersonal computers when they judge living beings. Do you know what this is?"

"It's an antique stethoscope," Chekov replied with an indignant scowl.

"Smart boy," the Doctor commented, handing it to him. "Here, use it," he urged as he dug through the bag again. He pulled out a more complicated device.

"So what do you hear?"

"My heartbeat," Chekov retorted, eyeing the Doctor with a look no less strange than M'Benga had.

"I suppose that means we have to continue on with this physical. Here, give me your arm. Have you seen this before?"

Chekov eyed the device curiously. McCoy wrapped a soft, wide belt around his upper arm. "In a museum, but I don't know what it is."

"It's a sphygmomanometer," the Doctor replied, carefully enunciating every syllable. "It measures your blood pressure. I inflate it on your arm and you tell me what your blood pressure is by using the stethoscope. Tell me when your pulse starts, then when it stops."

"If it stops, I die," the Navigator declared bluntly. The edge in his voice betrayed a suspicion that McCoy might actually have plans to stop his heart for some bizarre reason. _He really doesn't trust Doctors,_ McCoy reflected.

"The sound: just the sound," he rasped, matching the boy's indignation. "Tell me when you hear the sound start and stop."

"Oh. Yes, Sir." The Ensign tensed as McCoy pressed the stethoscope end against the crook of his arm and took hold of the inflator bulb. "Is this going to hurt?" he demanded quickly, managing to glare at both the device and the Doctor at the same time.

"No," the Doctor began, but stopped to actually consider the question. His steely blue eyes held the younger man's wide, distrustful gaze a long moment. "Yes," he corrected. "Yes, it's going to hurt a bit: but if you can't take this pain, you sure as hell don't belong in Starfleet."

The distrust, the panic, dimmed in Chekov's eyes. "Yes, Sir." Together, they took the man's blood pressure: a process which McCoy noticed seemed to fascinate the Ensign. "I need your pulse," the Doctor added as he stored his Grandmother's equipment back into the bag. Not surprisingly, Chekov had the number by the time he closed the bag. It was also not surprising to the Doctor that it was lower than the exam bed's initial reading. He felt vindicated.

_Control_. A simple key buried invisibly between the written words of a medical record. M'Benga had failed to explain what he was doing and why. He had run roughshod ahead, instinctively assuming he had advantage of the 'white coat syndrome': the innate trust patients had that the Doctor knew not only what he was doing, but was far better equipped to make basic medical decisions without being encumbered with drawn-out explanations.

It was an erroneous assumption. Chekov had long since lost such trust and had steeled himself with rock-hard suspicion against every move by the medical community. He'd learned to protect himself, McCoy thought again. Pavel Chekov's life had taught him that he had to stay in control to stay safe. A Doctor could almost always count on his instinctive bedside manner: but here were occasional patients one had to struggle to find footing to deal with effectively. As a Starfleet Doctor, he didn't have the luxury of passing on such patients to another practice. He wasn't the kind of Doctor who would have done so anyway.

_Kid_, McCoy thought vehemently. _If you need control, you'll have it. _

The whole prospect was daunting and exhausting. If his confidence was misplace because he was wrong, or if he misstepped, the consequences would be dire. The boy's medical record made that clear.

The Doctor pulled the case that M'Benga had brought into the room over to the bed. "I assume that you've seen one of these before?" he asked, holding up the hypo.

Chekov nodded sullenly and furtively glanced away: but not before the Doctor saw the shadow of pain in the depths of his eyes.

"Do you know how to operate one?"

The Ensign nodded sullenly again without looking back at the Doctor.

"Are you sure?" McCoy persisted, eyes studying the boy's now ashen features.

Chekov glanced back reluctantly at the Chief Medical Officer, his huge brown eyes so complete with the echoed memory of suffering that it was excruciating to hold their gaze. "Doctor," the Ensign said in a thick, hollow voice. "At the Chapman Clinic I administered my own meds: many times a day, every day. Many times a day."

McCoy held his gaze despite how difficult it was. No one could truly know the suffering of another, but it was important to the Doctor that the Ensign understand McCoy would have been willing to go there with him if it was possible.

Chekov's eyes narrowed and he tilted his head as he studied the Doctor carefully. He smiled then: a slow, sly smirk. "You know, Dr. Bob was simply freeing up his medical staff by having me do it myself."

"Good," the Doctor responded quickly. "Than you won't have any problem pitching in here." He didn't mention the haunted memory he saw in the brown eyes and silently marveled at the kid's skillful ability to swiftly turn the situation around with humor.

"They didn't trust me."

"It only works as a two way street," McCoy attested. "For a complete, initial physical," he continued, "Starfleet requires an entire host of samples for various tests. Probably just to annoy both of us," he rasped good-humoredly.

"There's the hypo: it's set to collect, not administer. The vials are there and they match the settings on the hypo. I'm sure you can figure it out, I'm told you're a bright boy.

"I'll be back soon," McCoy added over his shoulder as he disappeared back into his office. He sat down heavily and stared at the blank computer monitor, as if he could see the new Ensign's medical file there. The Doctor had reread it so often that he practically could.

There wasn't any doubt in his mind that Dr. Robert Chapman had written the truth in the record. While Chekov had charmed Nurse Chapel, McCoy had seen the current of fear and demonic possession in the depths of his dark eyes. The boy was prepared to defend himself against any perceived threat and that spelled danger for all medical personnel.

McCoy knew it was better for everyone concerned: sickbay staff and the kid as well, that he had decided to be the one to deal with him. The Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer was sure that he had secured the key to a successful Doctor/Patient relationship with Chekov. He simply had to let the kid be in control of what they were doing.

Harder than it sounded, such a tack would require constant rethinking and second guessing of the way he did everything. Frankly, McCoy was still afraid of the kid: and he was not above admitting it.

"Bones, how about a coffee break?" Kirk suggested, grabbing onto the doorframe and leaning into the room.

"Sorry, I'm doing a physical." He indicated the exam room beyond his office's one-way observation mirror.

Scant lines furrowed through Kirk's forehead as he watched the young man's activities. "Chekov," he identified. "I didn't realize you had the crew doing their own physicals now," he chided with a wry grin.

"Hell of a time saver," McCoy rasped. "Do you want any advice on how to run the ship?"

With a raised eyebrow, the Captain smirked. "I'd be surprised if you stopped now." He glanced at the new Ensign before continuing, easily recognizing McCoy's off mood. "Is there something I should know about Chekov?"

McCoy hesitated and raised his eyes to his commanding officer. _Hell, yes, _he thought, wanting desperately to spew out the alarming contents of the medical record. _None of the Captain's business,_ he chided himself dismally, _unless it related to ship's business. I want this kid transferred, Jim, _he thought vehemently. _He takes too much energy: Spock is enough of a headache._

"What I can tell you so far," was his verbal reply, "Is that he's in very good shape physically. A small build, but he's very athletic: quite muscular. He's limber," he added as an afterthought, a glint in his steel blue eyes. "Very limber."

Kirk's scrutiny of his friend turned quizzical. "Limber?"

"Don't ask," McCoy advised with a wry grin. "I'll catch you later, Jim," he added as he got up to rejoin his patient. The Doctor saw that the Ensign had finished his assigned task and it didn't seem particularly wise to leave Chekov unoccupied for too long.

"All set?" he asked as he examined the tray. It was not only complete but in meticulous order: much better than required. The Doctor recognized it as another hint into the kid's obsessive personality quirks. "Looks good," he commented.

McCoy turned to place the tray aside, but the man's clear voice made him hesitate.

"This is a clause in our contract?"

The Doctor gave him a sidelong glance, studying the deep brown eyes and the tentative curiosity in them. He nodded after a moment. "Yes," he agreed. "Our contract. I'll tell you what I need to do and why."

Straightening noticeably, this idea seemed to set well with the Navigator. "And you will have me perform anything I am able to do myself?"

"Hell of a time saver," McCoy said again. "Of course, you can refuse any procedure." He leaned in closer to the Ensign. "Then I'll tell you why I'm doing it anyway.

"Lie down," he added as he turned away. "We'll get through the rest of this as quickly as possible. Then you can come back later for the second half of the exam, when I've gone over the results."

Chekov's head shot up, clear horror deep in his eyes as he glared at the Doctor. "Come back?"

"Get used to it, boy. Lie down," McCoy snarled. He actually pushed the man's head back down. Despite himself, his hand still trembled slightly when he touched the man.


	2. Chapter 2

McCoy was again scrolling through the information on Ensign Chekov displayed on the computermonitor, only this time it was current readings: not his medical history. It did little to quiet the Doctor's unease. If anything, it reinforced it. The current readings, themselves, were sobering.

"Doctor McCoy?"

He raised bright blue eyes to the young man standing in the doorway of his office. Early again. _Always true to his life pattern. _Although his wide brown eyes were steady, the Ensign carried a bottle of wine in one hand and had a large woven basket slung over the other shoulder. _He's making a clear statement that he has no intention of being here very long_, McCoy considered with slight amusement at the man's brazen nerve.

"Please have a seat, Ensign." It would have been downright ludicrous to invite him to make himself comfortable.

The Navigator placed the bottle of wine on the edge of the desk and lowered the basket to the floor as he took the chair on the opposite side of the desk from the Doctor.

"Well, Mr. Chekov," McCoy observed easily. "I have your exam results here. There's just a few things I want to go over. You're in excellent physical condition with a large percentage of muscle mass. "The problem I see is that body fat percentage is what helps fight off infection. You have very little body fat and a very high metabolism. I want to see you increase the amount you're eating."

"That's not possible," the man replied bluntly.

The Doctor glanced up at the flat tone and Chekov scowled. "Ask anyone who knows me: I couldn't possibly eat more than I do: no human could. I don't get sick," he added helpfully.

"Oh really?" McCoy asked with amusement.

"No. Viruses' don't seem to like me."

"Well, then we won't be seeing much of each other."

Chekov just stared silently at the ship's Chief Medical Officer, his dark eyes unreadable. It unnerved the Doctor, which was probably his intention. The man didn't seem to do much that was unintentional.

"I didn't say I never get hurt," the Ensign stated.

_An understatement, _McCoy thought ruefully. "Do you lift weights?" he asked.

The Navigator frowned in confusion. "For what reason would I do that, Sir?"

"You do work out in the gym," the Doctor noted, without explaining that it was obvious by how limber the man was.

"Yes, Sir."

"Well, if not to maintain your bulk, then why?" he questioned.

Chekov straightened, brown eyes calculating as he considered his answer. "There are women there, Sir." He shrugged, a smirk skirting across his lips. "Women in very little clothing."

McCoy glanced away, struggling to contain his grin. He cleared his throat. "I noticed from your psyche profile that you don't like men," he observed.

"Now, what it that supposed to mean?" Chekov demanded self-righteously.

The Doctor glanced back at the young man, letting the grin spread across his face this time. "I only meant that you're heterosexual: not that you have some sort of deep seated emotional problem."

"Oh," the Ensign intoned, subdued. "Sorry, Sir."

"I only mentioned it because you've fallen behind on your routine shots. I'll catch you up before you leave today."

"I don't need any shots," Chekov declared fiercely.

McCoy leaned back in his chair. "Do you have intimate relationships with women?" he asked. Had the Ensign preferred men, the Doctor would have known this from his physical exam. Medically, there simply no way to tell the same thing about a man's relationships with women unless an exam's timing was exceptional good.

"Yes," Chekov scowled. "I have girlfriends. I just don't have one at the moment. I just got here, remember?"

McCoy studied the young man's wholesome, good looks for a moment. "If you plan to start a family, son, a deep space assignment is not a good choice."

The new Navigator growled low in his throat, glancing away to stare at some distant point on the floor. "I do not have a girlfriend now," he maintained sourly. "When I do, rest assured, I will come for my shots."

"Most people keep their shots up...to be prepared," the Doctor observed. "You know they have no long-term ill effects, I'm sure."

"I am not most people," Chekov snarled.

_No,_ McCoy thought, sighing. _You are certainly not most people._ It didn't come as a surprise to the Doctor that the young man would consider routine sterilization treatment as a needless intrusion to his person at times. His psyche record did note that the Navigator preferred established relationships to casual ones.

The Doctor leaned on his desk, gesturing with a hand. "What about spontaneity?" he asked curiously.

The young man chewed on his lower lip a moment. "There are options for men that have existed since before recorded history, should the need arise."

McCoy forcefully bit back a grin. 'Most people' avoided such primitive options at all costs. "Yes," he agreed, clearing his throat. "Son, if you find you don't prefer what the computer can provide, I have a large quantity of natural styles available for your convenience."

"Why, thank-you," the Navigator growled under his breath, squirming in his chair as he did so. "Is this amusing you, Sir?" he spat out darkly at the Doctor when the older man poorly attempted to hold back his grin with a strategically placed hand.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chekov," McCoy countered. "It just seems that this conversation is making you uncomfortable. I'm your Doctor, you know: not your father."

"My father I would be comfortable speaking to," the young man muttered.

The Doctor smiled gently at that, leaning back in his chair. The record indicated that Chekov had an extremely close relationship with his parents.

"I noticed that your parents are both cultural anthropologists and you moved around with them while growing up," he commented.

"Yes, their work involves much travel."

"That must have been difficult as a child," the Doctor mused. "Moving all the time meant you were unable to establish long term friendships with peers or go to school. Did you feel adrift, without any real roots?"

The Navigator's dark eyes stared at him stolidly for a long moment. He leaned forward then, folding his arms and resting them on the desk. "My parents brought me everywhere they went. Doctor, I felt wanted. And important."

McCoy watched him the clear stance of confrontation and the challenge in Chekov's face as he spoke. He was reminded of the detailed Academy psychological profiles in the medical record that the Doctor had already confirmed in his own mind. This young man had a strong sense of himself, a rock solid positive self image, and was brimming with enough self confidence to be considered downright cocky. It took special parents to produce such a human. _The kind of parents that bring their kid to work with them every day,_ the Doctor reflected.

Chekov leaned back in his chair again and shrugged in a luxurious motion. "I learned to make friends quickly and was advanced in my schooling because of home tutors. I also learned to speak many languages in our travels."

The Doctor nodded in understanding. The file said the Ensign had completed several basic Academy courses before he actually attended the institution. What McCoy observed aloud was: "The language center in the human brain absorbs new languages quickly at young ages."

"Is your specialty psychiatry?" the Navigator asked suddenly.

"No, I'm a surgeon."

"Then is there a point too actually going through all this?" Chekov questioned. "The Academy's psychological testing is quite thorough. Just read the file, Sir."

"Yes, the standard testing is there, but in fact," McCoy commented, "There doesn't seem to be a lot of notations in general that were made by the Academy medical staff."

"Yes, well, they avoided me," Chekov retorted evenly. "Just like at the Clinic--I seem to have that affect on Doctors."

Blue eyes widening, the Doctor fixed them on the young man. "Now, I can't imagine why," he drawled languidly.

The young man scowled at him.

"Do you like the taste of human blood?" McCoy asked, feigning innocent curiosity in his question.

The Navigator's dark eyes fluttered up to the Doctor and stayed there firmly. "Now I'm a vampire? Surely you've sucked on a paper cut," he replied.

"That was my own blood, not someone else's. I can't say that I've ever tasted human flesh either," he rasped.

Chekov rolled his eyes, drawing them away from the medical officer again and shrugging. "Tastes like chicken," he quipped.

"Do you think everything is funny?" the Doctor demanded, outright offended.

"Yes, pretty much so," the young man admitted.

"What you did to those Doctors at the Clinic wasn't funny in the least," McCoy bit out.

The Ensign sighed and screwed up his face in disdain. "Got my point across," he muttered. "They left me alone." He added louder: "I was angry and they got in the way."

Chekov cleared his throat as he looked down and brush some invisible fleck off his pants. "I didn't expect to hit bone," he observed under his breath.

"Dr. Chapman still has scars," McCoy charged without apology.

"So do I," Chekov retorted, looking back up at the Doctor.

McCoy leaned back, studying the Ensign for a moment. "Scars can be surgically hidden. You kept them for a reason."

"I've had enough surgery on my leg to last a lifetime, thank you, Sir."

The Doctor nodded in understanding, then shifted in his chair to ease the building tension. "Your record doesn't say how you were injured," he observed.

"No, it doesn't," Chekov agreed evenly. "You have all the information you need."

"It would be helpful to know what caused your lower leg to be so violently amputated."

"Don't you enjoy a little bit of challenge to your imagination?"

"You still have nerve damage in that leg," McCoy continued, ignoring the baited comment.

"It's not noticeable. Not all the nerves cooperated with the Doctor and became functional again."

The Doctor watched the vague emotions skirt across the wide brown eyes, despite the cold tone in the man's voice. The human nervous system was an electrical one at its most basic level. Modern medicine could reconnect the wiring when need be, but it was up to the body to make the current again. Severed nerves opened a live circuit box in a body and the pain caused by the slightest movement or touch was excruciating.

"You could have spared yourself a great deal of pain and rehab by simply getting a bionic replacement. You did realize that, didn't you?" he asked.

"Not in my nature," the Ensign quipped.

McCoy sat staring at him, unmoving.

Chekov eyes darkened and sank, becoming bottomless as he met the Doctor's steady stare. "Sir, the Command School at the Academy does not accept cadets with artificial body parts. The don't want to start with damaged goods."

McCoy's insides stilled and he forced himself not to swallow hard. This young man had willingly paid an enormous price for his Starfleet commission and a shot at the Captaincy. Chekov could have transferred to one of the other schools and spared himself.

"How did you get injured?" the Doctor flatly asked again.

"You're not going to drop this, are you?"

"Not in my nature," McCoy quipped.

Sighing, the Ensign considered his answer. "Would you believe a shark bit it off?" he finally asked.

"And yet you had the leg to reattach?"

"Apparently, I do not taste so good."

"Very funny," McCoy drawled. "You need another cover story, son. We have ways of keeping track of ocean life now. Do you know how few shark attacks have occurred on Earth in the last few centuries?"

"One is all it takes."

The Doctor chuckled quietly. "You keep people at a distance with your humor," he observed.

"Not always," Chekov replied quickly. "Sometimes I bite them."

Despite himself, McCoy felt the blood drain from his face.

The dark eyes regarded him with humor. "You're not planning to make me angry, are you?" Before he could reply, the younger man leaned on the edge of the desk. "Why did you send your bodyguard away?" he prodded.

"What?" the Doctor began, but then realized that Chekov did have a well-trained or inherent skill for sizing up people and situations quickly and accurately. It was obviously something learned from traveling about so much as a child. "Dr. M'Benga," McCoy finally identified his so-called 'body guard': a label which was more accurate than he cared to admit.

"You trusted me: humans tend to return what they get. I have a very good staff: you'll get used to them."

McCoy hesitated, noticing how the younger man's jaw tightened, his skin graying. The Doctor's eyes remained steady on the Ensign, refusing to ignore what he observed.

"I trust you," Chekov said tightly after a moment.

The Doctor interlaced his fingers in his lap thoughtfully. He considered the young man and his history again before deciding to share his previous decision. "Ensign, situations arise that may make it necessary for you to receive medical attention from whatever staff is available," he stated. "But our contract is that I am your primary physician."

The now familiar word sparked something in Chekov and the Doctor saw his dark eyes gleam. "Contract," he repeated soundly, his accent thick as he nodded in agreement. He sat there chewing on his bottom lip, shades of hesitancy playing over his face.

McCoy allowed him the space to think in silence and finally saw a shift in the color of the young man's eyes. _Expressive, _he thought. _The man's eyes betray everything he's thinking. When he lets them, _he resolved, knowing already the Ensign had a knack for controlling the human interactions he was involved in. It was obvious to the Doctor that Chekov had come to a decision.

"When I was at the Chapman Clinic I was uncomfortable," the Navigator explained evenly. "All those Doctors and nurses and technicians and procedures . . . " he stopped, quelling his emotions with a visible shudder. "I was uncomfortable and the medical staff kept pestering me unnecessarily. They didn't listen. They didn't understand."

McCoy didn't need the young man to elaborate. He didn't need the details of the man's stay at the rehab clinic to know his injury and recovery would have peaked the scientific curiosity of any medical person. It only surprised the Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer that the Ensign realized how many of the medical procedures inflicted upon him probably had nothing to do with treating his condition.

The Doctor shifted in his chair again, making a point of meeting the young man's steady gaze. "Son, every patient has the right to direct the course of his medical treatment: including refusing any treatment. Don't ever apologize for having a backbone. You'd be surprised how easy it is to get so wrapped up in a treatment plan that you forget there's a person putting up with it." He silenced for a moment, staring at the man's huge brown eyes of liquid chocolate.

"I suggest you work on your communication skills with medical personnel, however."

He saw Chekov's eyes sparkle wickedly as he fought back an impish smirk.

"You say you were 'uncomfortable' while you were at the Clinic?" McCoy felt safe in continuing carefully, eyeing the Navigator.

The young man started, shooting the Doctor a ludicrous look. "Yes," he snarled thickly. "I had an accident and went to the Chapman Clinic for rehab. It's the finest in the galaxy. I could not walk when I arrived there.

"You have my file," he challenged, his accent growing heavier.

"It's in your file," the Doctor agreed. The young man's accent seemed to vary with his mood: as did his command of the English language. By now, McCoy was not at all willing to think it unintentional.

It was not the cold written facts in the record that made the deep impression on the Doctor, however. He had now seen first hand the ravages the accident had left on the young man's body. Steely blue eyes remained fixed on Chekov. "Son," he asked quietly, "What exactly do you consider pain, as opposed to discomfort?"

The Ensign merely averted his eyes from the Doctor's. McCoy let him sit there, feeling no compulsion to do anything while waiting for an answer.

"When something becomes an everyday part of your life it loses all quality of being remarkable," Chekov finally commented in a rare glimpse into the depths of his thoughts. "Pain and I are old acquaintances. I have a heightened startle reflex, but I don't usually notice pain. It just doesn't bother me.

"Why did you alter your pronoun use?" he asked, glancing back at McCoy as he obviously changed the subject to make himself more comfortable.

"Pronoun use? What do you mean?"

"You stopped calling me 'boy',"Chekov observed. "You're calling me 'son' now."

McCoy blinked. Kirk had made a good choice, he thought. Quick-witted, clever, observant and inherently able to judge how to manipulate a situation: this young man had the makings of a fine command officer. "I'm sorry. Does it bother you?"

The young man stared at him, considering. "No," he replied. "I wish to make it part of our contract."

McCoy blinked again, startled by the unexpected solemness toward something he had so casually slipped into. He didn't question it, however. "That will be fine."

"I still question why you changed your pronoun use," the younger man persisted.

"Human beings-- flesh--makes a greater testament to a person's character than any piece of paper or computer readout," the Doctor explained evenly. "I examined you, son. I know what you endured and how hard you fought to get to where you are. You stopped being a boy a long time ago."

This time it was Chekov who blinked in surprise. Wide brown eyes stayed fixed on McCoy's steel blue ones. The basic respect he saw in them the Doctor saw returned two fold without hesitation.

"Speaking of being a boy," the Doctor asserted, a knowing glint coming into his eyes. "Did you enjoy jumping off the roof of your house when you were a child?"

The Ensign's head jerked upright, regarding the ship's Chief Surgeon as though he'd gone insane. "I most certainly did not! Our home was three stories with a full attic," he declared. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"

McCoy's eyes narrowed, staring at the new Navigator as he considered the possibilities. A sudden grin swept over his face. "I know you: you had a favorite tree you climbed and were too impatient to climb down: you always jumped out of it."

"I..." Chekov began another protest, but stopped to eye the Doctor. "Why do you say this?"

"Hip damage," McCoy stated simply. "You have hip damage which was caused by routinely jumping from a height of approximately six feet."

The young man stared at him in blatant curiosity. "You can tell this just by the damage?"

"It's not even modern medicine, son. It's not apparent to you now, but it's quite visible to anyone with even primitive equipment. No one ever told you that you have hip damage?"

"The Doctor's at the Academy avoided me," he reminded the older man. "Dr. Bob was busy treating my leg."

"I'm sure you didn't know jumping out of that tree could lead to arthritis. You're young but I'd advise you to get it fixed before it starts causing you problems: it'll only deteriorate without treatment."

The Ensign leaned back at this, scowling. "I suppose you want to operate," he rasped.

"Frankly, son, I've got plenty to keep me busy without adding you to the list," McCoy retorted. "The damage won't interfere with your life for years. Once it does, it can't be entirely reversed, though. Live with it as long as you choose: suit yourself."

The Doctor examined the skin on his hands casually as he felt the young man studying him.

"How long a stay in sickbay would this procedure require?" Chekov inquired. "Would I be unable to perform my routine duties?"

McCoy chuckled silently to himself, still staring at his hand. The first question most patients had would have been about the discomfort involved and the length of time it would be endured. That the Navigator didn't even consider the pain spoke to his assertion that such inconvenience he considered a mere fact of life. He was only worried that he wouldn't be able to report to duty as scheduled.

_Character,_ the Doctor observed ruefully. _Jim Kirk is usually right._

The Chief Surgeon heard also the underlying question of how long Chekov would have to endure a stay in sickbay. He raised his eyes to meet the younger man's gaze. "It could be done on your day off. Usually, I prefer using the privilege of moving a person off the active duty list so a day off isn't wasted. You'll come to realize how precious the time you have to yourself is in deep space service after a few red alerts, but I don't suppose you'd be willing to consider that option."

"No, Sir, I wouldn't."

"I didn't think so," McCoy acknowledged. "The procedure wouldn't take more than an hour. I usually prefer to observe a patient for the rest of the day." He forcefully bit back a smirk when he saw the man's reaction to that. "Son, I'd be willing to accept that you are quite familiar with your own body and can relax in your own bed after such a simple treatment."

The Doctor instantly threw up a finger when he saw the outright glee in the young man's uncontained wild grin. "That's assuming you'll be willing to accept my house calls during that time," he rasped.

"Yes, Sir," Chekov agreed emphatically.

"It's part of our contract," McCoy continued. "I'll always offer the least invasive option available. No matter what a pain in the ass it is."

The Ensign nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Sir."

"Just part of my job, son."

Repeating the nod, the Navigator then bent over and casually reached into the basket he'd placed on the floor when he'd arrived.

"I heard we have something in common, so I brought some things for you."

"I'll have you know that I'm not above bribery," the Doctor observed helpfully, peering over the desk's edge to try to see what the younger man was doing.

"Not bribery: payment in tangible goods," the Ensign corrected.

"An old country Doctor is definitely not above that, either. What do you have there?" he insisted, becoming downright impatient now.

Chekov straightened and held up a hand containing two round objects: their brilliant color shocking in the dismal gray universe of a deep space ship. He offered one to the Doctor with polished graciousness.

"Good God Almighty!" McCoy exclaimed, grabbing it and pressing the rough, scented skin against his nose and mouth in sinful delight. "Where on Earth did you get fresh oranges?"

"In Georgia," Chekov replied with maddening simplicity. He ripped the rind of his orange open, sending an intoxicating spray of scent into the air. "Georgia has the best citrus fruit on Earth. I brought some for my purser's stores."

That made sense, the Doctor thought as he tore into his own precious fruit. Officer's all had an assigned storage section in the purser's stores and having just come aboard from Earth, there was no telling the treasures that Chekov had hidden away in his.

"Georgia is famous for its peaches," McCoy said through his mouthful of dripping flesh. "Citrus grows a bit south, in Florida, Chekov."

A wry smile gleamed in the Ensign's dark eyes, but it didn't reach his face. He indicated the bottle he'd placed on the Doctor's desk. "I also brought you some Georgian wine. There's still no finer vintage in the known Galaxy."

"Son," McCoy drawled with a fine southern accent. "The only liquor made in Georgia is 'shine, and it isn't put in fine bottles like this.

"What is it exactly that we have in common?" he asked as he picked up the bottle and studied it's strange label.

"We're both Georgian," the Navigator replied.

McCoy froze and raised his bright blue eyes, staring at the young man solidly. "Ensign, your classic Muscovite features and big puppy dog eyes identify you as a Russian instantly."

A sudden, dark glance and tightened jaw told the Doctor he'd hit some button, but he couldn't begin to comprehend how. The new Ensign seemed to have more buttons than any man rightly deserved.

The young man made a show of placing his orange rind in the basket on the floor. He straightened and softly cleared his throat, but did not meet McCoy's gaze. "Doctor," he said with care. "Calling a Russian a Muscovite is considered an insult. It means they're pretentious and uppity."

"I didn't realize that," McCoy explained, but a cursory survey of the younger man's face told him it was hardly his largest mistake. "What else did I say?"

The dark eyes did glance at him this time, although they flitted on past him almost immediately. "You never use the word 'puppy' in any description of a Russian man--not if you want to live."

The Doctor chuckled and began working the cork out of the wine bottle. "Mr. Chekov, puppies are cute, cuddly and irresistible. You can't tell me that you don't realize you inspire those sentiments in the females around you: I've seen you with them. There are far worse things you could be called."

The comment caused color to flash into the Navigator's cheeks. His warm, soulful eyes did touch McCoy's this time. "Not if you're a Russian man, Doctor. 'Puppies' in Russia are small, emasculated and intellectually slow males that are completely unable to ever function as adults. They need to be taken care of and are a burden to the community rather than a contributing member. 'Birdie' has the same meaning."

"Imagine," McCoy remarked. Being five foot six with a small frame, he knew Chekov had defended himself against the term more than once in his lifetime. "I bet you would have punched me in Russia."

In all honesty, Chekov nodded. "Not very well, though," he admitted. "My father doesn't approve of violence, so he always yanked me away from fights. I was in the remedial personal combat class at the Academy." He smirked wildly, dark eyes sparkling as he pushed another piece of fruit into his mouth.

_As if I'd believe there was such a class. _McCoy refused to acknowledge the bad joke with a smile. He reached behind him to retrieve glasses off a shelf and filled them with wine. "Are you actually trying to tell me that you're an American of Russian decent--from Georgia, no less?" The notion wouldn't be all that ludicrous if it wasn't for the man's pervasive accent.

An easy, bright smile flashed over Chekov's face and sparkled in the warm brown eyes. "That is an interesting idea." He puzzled the notion with such seriousness that it caused the Doctor to chuckle finally. The deepened grin told McCoy that it was the man's intention.

"I am not an American Georgian," the Ensign said. "I am Georgian from the country state of Georgia."

"You're not Russian?" McCoy asked, staring down into the glass in his hand. "This is good wine," he observed as an afterthought.

"I am a Russian citizen," Chekov replied tolerantly. "But Russia is just the largest country-state in the Independent States of the Russian Federation. There are dozens of other country states: Georgia, Belarus, Estonia, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan…"

"So you're not actually Russian?" the Doctor repeated, purposely interrupting what promised to be a lengthy geography lesson.

Chekov squirmed sheepishly. "With this face? Yes, of course I am Russian. My mother is a Great Russian: that is an actual ethnic Russian. My father is Georgian, though," he explained. "See, I have his dark eyes."

"I wonder what he's using to see," McCoy commented ruefully as he refilled his glass. "So your eyes are your only Georgian trait?" he asked with mild interest.

"Well, no," the younger man muttered, staring into his glass like there was something swimming in the wine. "Georgian men are supposed to be darker, hairy and have...attributes that, well, women seek."

"You meet those criteria," the Doctor agreed. Chekov lost the appearance of being young and innocent with his clothes off. He had a chest full of thick, dark hair as well as the other 'attributes' women sought. He even had a tattoo on his shoulder for some ridiculous reason.

"Georgian men are generally believed to be innately more talented than either Don Juan or Valentino, as well," Chekov confessed reluctantly. "The Georgian government still objects to women traveling in the country alone."

"Humph," McCoy scowled. "I'm not thrilled to find out that your overpowering charm may actually be genetic--if that's possible."

"I hope you're hungry," the younger man observed, reaching back into the basket on the floor and ignoring the Doctor's pointed jibe. "I don't advertise my Georgian heritage," he commented thoughtfully as he rummaged in the basket. "Despite what everyone thinks, being branded by such a reputation has its disadvantages: women and men both have certain expectations of you. Everyone looks at my face and assumes that I'm entirely a Great Russian ethnically and I let them. I trust that you will treat information to the contrary as privileged information."

Chekov straightened again and held up a wide thermal container. "You did tell me not to miss meals. I brought dinner along, thinking you might join me. Here, take a plate."

McCoy's automatic refusal was swept away by the overpowering assault of smells on his senses when the young man opened the container. No odor could ever duplicate genuine meat and fresh vegetables from Earth. Exactly how much fresh food the new Ensign man had brought with him to his first posting was a question that consumed the Doctor instantly. Such a store pitifully never lasted long…especially if an officer was wont to share his good fortune, as Chekov obviously was.

McCoy wasn't about to spurn his share now while it still existed.

The Navigator ladled a heaping portion of some type of thick stew onto the plate before the Doctor. In the dark broth were massive chunks of actual meat, mushrooms, carrots, onions, parsnips and potatoes. The Doctor groaned aloud in primal pleasure without shame as the first taste assaulted him.

"This is incredible, Ensign. Don't try to tell me that the ship's cook managed to create this: even with your ingredients."

"I did help him," the Navigator admitted. In the word 'help' McCoy understood 'taught'. "Fresh bread?" the young man continued.

Chekov grinned as the man grabbed without shame for the offered treat. "It's Russian Black Bread," he warned.

"I like pumpernickel," the Doctor commented, but straightened as he chewed and the unusual flavor assaulted him. "Not pumpernickel," he observed. "But it's good."

"I am glad you approve. It is considered a treat."

The Navigator slowly savored the stew, watching with amusement as the Doctor devoured his own portion. He paused to ladle more on the Doctor's plate after the man emptied it.

"What is this meat?" McCoy asked curiously. "It certainly isn't game, but it's not anything domesticated I recognize. It's not beef, buffalo, ostrich, emu..."

"No," Chekov agreed. "They tried to domesticate them at one time, but they couldn't. They're beautiful animals, but they're quite headstrong. It's actually my favorite meat."

"I can see why they appeal to you," the Doctor observed. "You have a lot in common with these animals." He flashed a wry grin when the Ensign glared at him. "What kind of meat is it?" the Doctor persisted, shoveling more of it into his mouth enthusiastically.

The younger man took the time to swallow before answering. "It's reindeer meat."

McCoy straightened, freezing as he eyed Chekov. "Reindeer? As is Santa Claus?"

"Yes," the Navigator confirmed. "Ninety percent of the Earth's reindeer population are raised by nomads in Siberia."

"Ninety percent?" the Doctor repeated with dubious curiosity about the truth of the statement. "Really? Aren't they at the North Pole?"

"No: in Siberia," Chekov insisted. "The rest are in Alaska and Norway.

"Sulu can't eat it," he added, scowling in thought at the piece of meat on his spoon. "He gags on it: says he has some sort of hang-up about Rudolph.

"I have told him," the Ensign insisted, his accent growing thicker as he pushed the meat into his mouth. "The instant any reindeer is born with the ability to fly they call Santa immediately."

The Doctor laughed out loud despite himself. "I didn't know Santa hung around Russia, Son."

"He generally doesn't," the younger man agreed again. "Father Frost and his daughter, The Snow Maiden, deliver our presents and they don't use reindeer. We do know about Santa, however, and have no objection to providing him all the magic animals we come across."

"Mighty sporting of you."

"We're that way."

McCoy chuckled again and returned his attention to his stew.

Chekov stared at his own empty plate in silence for a moment. "Did Doctor Chapman actually put in my file that I…"

The Doctor stopped eating, raising his eyes to stare at the new officer. "Have an appetite for Doctor's?"

"Interesting way of putting it," came the muttered observation as the young man's face greyed.

"It's professional courtesy to pass on all information that might be important to future medical personnel," McCoy stated.

"That confirms my suspicions of why the Academy Doctors avoided me."

"We don't have that option here," McCoy observed. He sighed and put his spoon down on the plate. "Son, whatever your accident was, you developed an extraordinary discomfort with the medical profession during treatment that you need to deal with: that we need to deal with. Young children sometimes bite. You're not a child and I'm clearly willing to classify your behavior as something other than biting."

"I have strong jaw muscles," Chekov retorted in reply. "What else did Dr. Bob helpfully put in my medical record?"

The Doctor shrugged, blue eyes sparkling. "Well, let's just say if you don't show up for an appointment I'll know where to go looking for you." He smiled warmly when Chekov flushed.

"I'm a little big for that," he said curtly, squirming in an obvious effort to regain some dignity.

"Son, according to your records, you were the same height and weighed more when you were sixteen. 'Dr. Bob'," he continued, using the younger man's nickname for Robert Chapman, "Noted that he also used that solution for his own needs on occasion. Let's just say I'm taking the hint and having a nearby closet emptied and equipped with a strong lock in case you feel compelled to break our contract."

Chekov dropped his dish and spoon into the basket on the floor. His jaw tightened. "Well, now, Dr. Bob did do a lot of chatting in my file, didn't he?"

McCoy nodded easily. It had disturbed him when he first read it, but after having met Chekov, he now found it enchanting that Dr. Chapman had found such a unique way to control the young man's wild moods. "It's your file. You can read it if you want, you know."

The shadow that crossed the young man's face told McCoy that if he'd known it, Chekov certainly had not considered the option.

"I do not need to: I lived it. That closet door was never locked," the Ensign divulged.

The Doctor drained the wine glass, studying the Russian with interest while he spoke. "When did you find that out?" he asked. It wasn't noted in the record, but, again, McCoy felt better about Dr. Chapman when he believed Chekov's information about the lock.

"I always knew there was no lock. Dr. Bob just knew I just needed a space . . . to do what I needed to do sometimes."

"Do you anticipate 'needing space' while you're aboard?" McCoy goaded.

"Why, Sir? Are you planning to rip a piece of my leg off?" Chekov asked sharply as he stood up. "I found ways to live with the pain. I sincerely pray that you never understand what lengths that can necessitate. Throwing a screaming tantrum was, at times, quite helpful."

"You can have the rest," he continued, indicating the food. "Share it with someone. Are we done yet, or do I need more psychoanalyzing?"

"I think we're done," the Doctor observed. "Thank-you for the food."

Chekov remained standing there, his dark eyes studying the ship's Chief Medical Officer. "We have a contract, don't we, Doctor?"

McCoy nodded deeply. "Yes, son, we have a contract.

"Mr. Chekov," he added as the Ensign moved to leave.

The young man hesitated at the door and turned back. His warm, expressive dark eyes stared at the Doctor out of the sweet, innocent face of an angel.

McCoy didn't buy it. Not for an instant.

He casually reached his hand into his Grandmother's bag, still resting on the desk where he'd left it.

"Your smile is one of your best features, Ensign," he observed. Fixing cold, steel blue eyes on Chekov, the Doctor dropped a crude set of steel pliers next to his plate.

"Don't make me change that."


End file.
